A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Thanks.

One thing I am always grateful for is the wisdom of my friends. They see things invisible to me in my writing, holes mostly, places where I need do a little work.

I had a little talk with Bill last night and he raised a few points about my story--places where it was difficult to follow. I thought about these narrative weaknesses and added a couple of stanzas to the poem today, by way of clarification. I would also like to thank John and Paul for their scholarly advice and encouragement on the subject of the Kobayashi Maru which is quickly turning into the presiding conceit of this piece.

There may be a few more stanzas added in the future, but I think the general outlines of this section of the poem are becoming clearer in my imagination. I began composing the opening lines of Part III while I was on the treadmill at Equinox this evening. I had to turn my music (Dropkick Murphys) up very loud to drown the poetry out of my head and concentrate on my quads. Will the Muses ever forgive me?

Anyway, at this late hour, here is my contribution for today. I hope it's okay.

[In case it still isn't, I have included some bonus video, as a footnote, at the end.]

Takaaki, Part II

Around a core of elevators setTwelve tall windows in a concrete sheetAs crumbly as the Parthenon; letYour panorama start in Brooklyn, greetThe Empire State behind a candle (whereI sit swiveling in a leather chair),While your eye continues travelingAlong gray glass, skyscrapers unraveling,Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Buil--ding gently lifts Lexington Avenue,Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now youMust have this scintillating picture fillThe space before your eyes: that is New York.Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.

“Introibo ad altare,” I will say,While blowing on my steaming vegetable,Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,”Hoping that I finally am ableTo tell Takaaki I enjoy his curryWithout entangling my tongue in worry.“It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferringMy compliments—as usual preferringA tilted head, a seated bow, the leanerShow of manners honored in Japan,Which can seem strange to an AmericanInclined to linger too much over dinner,Allowing food to cool and candles run.Before I’d started, Takaaki was done—

Done, so quickly, like those JapaneseCartoons I used to watch in Buffalo.Star Blazers was my favorite one of these.Five days a week, at 3:30, or so,On rusty orange carpet I would sitWatching an Imperial Navy ship,Resurrected and retooled for space,Leave planet Earth to save the human race.At 6:00pm, plate balanced on my knee,I’d see Toyota windshields being batteredBy men from Chevrolet, lives shatteredBy something known as, “The Economy.”One guy would wear this map t-shirt: aboveJapan it read, “Two bombs were not enough.”

Now, the two malignant mushrooms whichSprouted from the belly of that guyReturned as two shitakes in my dishOf curried chicken and vegetables. WhyWas that? From a Doraemon candy tinTakaaki took a cigarette. A thinWisp of smoke and hiss rose from his plate,Typical for your twenty-seventh date.“What do you want to do,” I inquired,“Go bowling? I’ll do anything you like:Get drunk? Get naked?” [Silence.] “Steal a bike?”“I swam forty laps tonight. I’m wired.”He exhaled, emitting a little laugh,“Shall we play Scrabble then and then have bath?”

The carrot on my fork released a dropOf curry—with a thick and oily splash.The precise second my utensil stoppedI discerned, across the table, a flash—Something which I hadn’t seen before—Metallic—worth investigating?—orMaybe not: a passenger aircraftHovering above New Jersey, as it passedBehind Takaaki’s silhouette, gliding inTo Kennedy, LaGuardia, Newark—Nothing I need necessarily report.A zero: no aluminium hiding inThose pink cotton puffs above his head—Those thunderclouds. That’s what I should have said.

“Have bath sounds good. But Scrabble, I will pass:You always win, you creep. You clearly cheat,”I said, “It’s obvious. You won the lastNine times. And you’re not going to defeatMe for time number ten tonight.” I putMy foot down firmly. There. Takaaki’s buttHe then extinguished in the drop of sauceWhich recently had claimed his match. “You lostBecause you play without strategy:There is no need for me to cheat,” he sighed,As if I were an insect on his thighToo insignificant to crush. “You see,You always want to find interesting word—Not the word that wins.” My mouth conferred

A moment with a chunk of chicken dyedCadmium by cumin in the curry—Before I swallowed. “I have always triedTo think of Scrabble with you as purelyEducational. It is my wishTo help you in enlarging your EnglishVocabulary. And defeating you—Too easily—as surely I must do—Would only be embarrassing. I knowHow sensitive to that Nihon-jin are:Destruction on a Scrabble board would marOur beautiful relationship.” “Honto?It sounds like Maru-chan’s afraid to play.”“Well, if you want to play with words, okay.”

(Maru-chan, or Little Maru, isThe new diminutive by which I’m knownIn Japanese. I really don’t existIn English anymore—except at home.Think of Maru as a marine suffix—A damaged freighter out of Altair Six—The bane of all Starfleet cadets, but one—Who counts impossible rescues amongHis greatest triumphs. Though Kirk’s victoryPales before my own: I am the firstTo work the Kobayashi into verse—In a surprising twist of History.Present me a no-win scenario,I read the rules. Then change the game. So,

The Kobayashi Maru is a testOf character. You’re not supposed to win.It’s chess. There is no ship in distress,Hull breached, an icy vacuum pouring in;The ship’s a simulation, and you loseWhatever course of action you should choose.The Kobayashi test presumes that deathIs built into our programming—like breath-Ing—it is part of human DNA.Live long and prosper? No, cadet: goodbye.Don’t bother asking for a reason why:Logic has the final, fatal say. I wonder if our friend, Spock—over there—Knows love is logic’s great nightmare?)

Takaaki taps a second cigaretteOn Dora-chan’s bountiful blue tin;I go on eating, watching the sun setLike some enormous, obvious omen.A hush descends across the dinner table,Until a tulip petal that’s incapableOf hanging on lands on my placematWith a soft thud. Five minutes pass like that—So slowly that they feel more like twenty.I trace circles in my curry sauceWhile he establishes just who is boss.Takaaki asks, “More?” “No, I’ve had plenty,Thanks.” I roll the tulip petal fromThe mat between forefinger and thumb

Contemplatively as Takaaki takesDishes to the kitchen. In florescent glass—Bisected cleanly by the Empire State—I watch Takaaki work—efficient asA robot—feeding things to TupperwareContainers, fridge, and freezer—awareI should be helping to put things away.I am lazy—what else can I say?When I see him stationed at the sinkI swallow the pale dregs of my iced-tea,Then saunter to the bathroom for a pee,Leaving the door open while I tink-Le, asking, “Hey, would you like me to help?Or do you plan to do it all yourself?”

Before we get to Scrabble we must firstPrepare the space for battle. Clean dishesRest in a rack, while bubbles rise and burstAround Takaaki as he calmly swishesCutlery though the hot suds. Each plateI plan to dry I first inspect. I scrapeA shred of gross organic matter looseFrom the light, lilac pattern. I peruseBoth back and front, then add it to the stackOf china in the cabinet above—Easing my stiletto in with love.This underhanded method of attackEarns my palm a pair of scalding forksFalling from the sky with deadly force.

“Jesus Christ! What’s got into you?”I thundered to a non-existent jury,“You stab me with steel forks out of the blue—I promise to play Scrabble and—” And fury,Rage crystallizing in Takaaki’s eye,“I know when you’re mocking me.” I tryNot to reply—permit my mask to slip—Given how I’ve destabilized his lip:It quivers like red jello, in a mold,Before the gelatin’s had time to setSufficiently. Our eyeballs briefly metWhile calculating how long we could holdSome dark profanity from bursting out.He placed his boiled hands beneath the spout

Allowing a cascade of cold to run,So his temper had a chance to cool.These Vulcans have a funny sense of fun.Letters at sunset. If this is a duel,Shall I tease my way into his tiles—Turn phrases on him, tiny lighted dials,Listening for that peculiar pingThat tells me what’s inside my sonar ringIs not a whale or school of silver fishDarting down into the icy depths—It is his anger, slowly sliding west,Enveloped in the velvet dark? I wishHe hadn’t tried to lecture me beforeAbout my Scrabble game. I abhor

Violence, like any veteranWho knows what horrors in his soul may lurk.But I’m American, and human, and,Against a submarine, depth-charges workWell—like words—if you deploy them right.But using double-meanings in a fightIs regulated largely by extentOf your technology. IntelligentTacticians will grade every syllableCarefully, according to its power—Testing terrors, safely, in the shower,Walking, waking, working—if capable—When stepping from their skivvies to make love.I draw the line at—this is getting rough.

Love’s not a game for gentlemen, like cricket.It’s more like dominoes with rubble. WarMay be our best analogy. I pick itBecause war has no ceiling, now, no floor:It’s waged like love—no limits. Not the sky,The stars, the earth, the sea. The tear-filled eye—So useful in the service of romance—Is like the language—wine and cheese—of France:A luxury. Like poetry. Like pity—Demoted to superfluous emotionWhen Eve and Adam lost their second sonTo murder. Individuals, each cityDestroyed since Genesis—Troy, Nagasaki—Goes back to one, Cain-raising kiss. Takaaki

Slowly shut the water off. He driedHis wrinkled fingertips on a fresh towelWith November printed on one side,A turkey, goose—some kind of brown, cooked fowl—Emblazoned on the other. He withdrewAnother cigarette. (There were just two,I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)I wish I could capture his expression.I left when he invited me to go—Which is not to say that I objected:I understood. In fact, I expectedThis. Takaaki let his feelings show.I added his heart to my victory archWhen he called months later. Back in March.